


Barn Red

by manhattan (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Drabble, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Implied Underage, Past Relationship(s), Quadrant Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-24
Updated: 2012-09-24
Packaged: 2017-11-15 00:02:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/520900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A replacement will never be as perfect as the thing which it replaces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Barn Red

He looks just like Kurloz, she thinks, when she meets him. His hands are rough, though, bony, not like Kurloz's soft fingertips, not like Kurloz's warm palms. His eyes are narrower, too, like a drone's, like a killer's, but Meulin's been taught not to judge on first sight (and then again, look at Kurloz's lips, at his stitches--who is she to be frightened by scars?).

Gamzee is ice cold and burns to the touch.

* * *

The first time she lets him kiss her, he bites her lower lip until it bleeds. Meulin is used to pain. She still pushes him away, watches that olive shade drip down his teeth.

She wonders what he would look like with stitches on his mouth, and then files away the thought, for later (for never again). Gamzee smiles, licks at her blood, gives her a hint that he knows what she's thinking about.

She leaves.

* * *

"Do you ever miss him?" Gamzee asks her, once. He's quiet, the calm before the storm. Meulin blinks.

"Not really," she says, keeping it casual with a shrug, and looks away, until she can't see his lips anymore. It's a shitty excuse for a lack of reply. He does not stop attacking--his sharp, thin fingers grab at her shoulder, and his nails aren't big enough to scratch, but they rake, leave a burn behind.

"I asked," he says, gritted teeth, his other hand grabbing at her chin, saying, look at me, "do you _ever--_ _motherfuckin'--miss him?"_

"No," she says (shouts), and spits at him, claws at his face, reopens his wounds. It's fair, she tells herself, with a smile, because he keeps reopening hers. It's a very painful relationship.

So they stand panting, staring at each other. Meulin laughs first.

* * *

Meenah asks her once, "so, you gettin' along with that psycho clownfish?"

"Gee oh em, can you say yeah?" Meulin replies, with a wide smile. Her fingers twitch to spell something, anything. "You know, he's not that bad! He's an acquired taste! Like catnip and tuna sandwiches--"

"Wow, I really don't wanna know," the other girl replies, waving her off. She only walks away after she's done talking, and Meulin feels almost appreciated.

But she does, because one afternoon full of sunsets and gazing at the sea, it's Aranea who says, by means of introduction, "sooo, you've been hanging around Gamzee a lot."

The two girls are not subtle; but perhaps Meenah does mean well. Meulin doesn't know. She has a faint memory of sharp tridents and green bruises, but she's dead now. What could Meenah hope to do?

"He's alright," she says. Aranea raises one concerned eyebrow, opens her mouth to speak of Kurloz's religion, or how she's been constantly hiding away between fragments of memories. So Meulin cuts her off in a rush, waving her hands and widening her eyes; the blue-blood's eyes soften, relax, take in her casual denial. "He's _nothing_ like Kurloz, though."

It's good enough for Aranea.

Meulin figures he's good enough for her, too, then.


End file.
